


Pirates of the Snow

by ShahbanouScheherazade



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Cornwall, Family, Friendship, Gen, Pirates, Smuggling, smugglers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1226698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShahbanouScheherazade/pseuds/ShahbanouScheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Sparrow is determined to pay his debt to the daughter of Teague's closest friend, and his plan will even make him rich. But he has other worries: a stolen ship, a crew he doesn't trust, and a dangerous ring of smugglers. It might still work, if his luck holds. If his father doesn't find out. And if he can keep himself and his young friend from getting killed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Borrower and the Lender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Jack Sparrow dashes the hopes of his young friend Nina when he can't repay the money she loaned him, but he is determined to find a way out of his debt.

"Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend."

\- William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

_\------_

Amidst the bustle of Market Day, Jack Sparrow stood outside a shop on Lemon Street in Truro. The young girl at his side nearly danced on her toes as she gazed at the shop window.

“Isn’t it lovely? It’s the loveliest thing ever!” she exclaimed. “Father says now I’m ten, I’m old enough – I couldn’t wait to show you!”

He rolled his eyes. “Ten is _not_ old enough, and I shall have a word with Captain Harry at once. You’ve put one over on him, you have!” Hopefully, her father’s judgment would prevail, and Jack could avoid a crisis he had dreaded for weeks.

“I _want_ it,” declared the girl. Her dark blue eyes flashed at him with steely determination.

Perhaps it was time for a different tactic. “Tell you what: let’s go in and have a word with the proprietor. You need to be sure it’s worth the price, and I’m just the one to tell you if it is; I know everything there is to know about scimitars. This is a dealer in antiquities, not a proper armourer, and it’s likely to be some rubbish brought back as a memento – or even a stage sword.” His face wrinkled with disgust.

She considered this for a moment, but then challenged him. “Then let’s go in now. I’ve already waited six months.”

Jack sighed. Stubborn lass, young Nina. “Right, Brat, we’ll have a look.”

He ushered her into the shop. There was still a chance; he had only to find some fatal flaw in the scimitar that would knock the proposed purchase on its head. That would forestall embarrassing questions about certain monies he owed her.

As the antique weapon was brought out for inspection, the Brat’s face glowed with delight. Jack frowned and concentrated on the scimitar. But despite his most critical eye, it was clearly of superior workmanship; well-balanced, strong yet light, and in exceptional condition.

“An excellent value at five guineas,” said the proprietor to the pair of unlikely-looking purchasers.

“We’ll let you know.” Jack took the Brat’s arm and steered her quickly out of the shop.

“Why are we leaving?” she demanded, twisting around in his grip.

He snorted. “Five guineas? It’s outrageous – you haven’t got that sort of coin.”

“Of course I do,” she argued. “Don’t you remember? I lent you everything I had saved the last time you and your father visited. You said you only needed it for a bit because you couldn't tell him about –“

“Right you are; I do recall our arrangement.” Jack hastily interrupted her, cringing inwardly at the reminder. “But since then, complications have arisen, and . . . the truth is, I’m well and truly skint, love. I haven’t a farthing.”

He exhaled a sigh of relief. This long-avoided confession would finally clear the air. Once she calmed down, the Brat would have to accept that he couldn’t repay what he hadn’t got.

He waited for an angry outburst, but none came. Instead, her shoulders drooped and she looked back longingly towards the shop, saying nothing. Jack could read the intensity of her disappointment. He turned his eyes skyward, fervently hoping there would be no tears.

After a pause, she lifted her chin and said, “You couldn’t help it; it’s all right.” Her tone was subdued and a little forced.

By this time they had walked as far as the inn where they were to hire a horse for their journey to Penzance. They spoke with a stable boy, who disappeared in search of a suitable mount.

As they waited, Jack felt unaccustomed promptings of conscience. He glanced down at the Brat. “Look here, mouse, I’ll make good on it. Promise.”

She nodded, and forced something resembling a smile, but did not turn to look at him, as the boy returned with a chestnut mare.

“Anyway,” he added in darkly conspiratorial tones, “You’re not going home yet. We've to deal with the P’s first, and then we’ll sort out the rest of it.”

Drawing himself up with a bold air, he turned to the stable boy. “That would be P for pirates, lad.” Then he turned a sharp eye upon the mare. At least sixteen years old by the look of her, and shifting her weight off her right foreleg.

He turned to the stable boy. “That horse won’t do, mate. We need one that won’t be going lame in half a mile. Let me find the innkeeper.” With a flourish of his wrist, he swaggered into the inn.

In Jack's absence, the stable boy stole curious looks at the girl. _A boy in his brother's clothes?_ he wondered. _Looks like a lass if ye goes by 'ur face an' hair, but why is she in boy's fligs? At least we won't need no side-saddle._

He had just decided that she was indeed a girl, and that he quite fancied the trancelike way she sat staring absently into the distance, when suddenly the Brat spoke in a small, polite voice.

“Actually, it’s P for parents,” she told the boy, smiling apologetically. “Only he doesn’t like anyone knowing.” The boy grinned back at her.

Jack's negotiations with the innkeeper produced a strong, roan gelding that jogged along the rugged path comfortably with the two travelers upon his broad back. For some time they rode in silence, Jack wondering how to find the five guineas to repay his debt. Asking his father was out of the question, and the work he was starting to do for the East India Trading Company brought less than three pounds each month. That left piracy or a substantial run of luck at cards. As he mulled over these options, the Brat began to enquire about their current venture.

"Do you think the P's have bought the cutter yet?" she asked him. "Perhaps they'll let us name it."

He sighed. At eighteen years of age, the purchase of a ship was hardly that exciting to him any longer. "I expect they've got the cutter well in hand by now. And it's 'perhaps they'll let us name _her'_ , not ' _it'_."

"Do you know why they want it – _her_?"

He chuckled. "No idea, love. My dad got a message from your dad, and told me were needed in Penzance. Then I find your dad’s got his eye on a cutter and we're to help sail her back to Pencarren. Then I’d to collect you, Miss Trouble. For all I know, the P’s suddenly fancy a change and are now planning to follow the old trade."

"Smuggling?" The surprise in her voice made him grin. She was too young to know when he was joking. "They can’t! Father has too many messenger commissions – there’s no time for anything else lately."

Not to mention that the last thing Jack could imagine was Captain Harry Bitter taking to the smuggler’s trade. Oh, he had the necessary boldness and sense of adventure. But smuggling would be dull indeed compared to his work as a King’s Messenger.

It was well after dark by the time they reached Penzance. They dismounted at the Turk's Head Inn, and handed over the weary horse, with instructions and payment for returning their mount to Truro. Then they made their way into the dimly lit, low-ceilinged taproom and looked about for Teague and Bitter. There were all manner of customers to be seen that night, from farmers to bailiffs to seafaring men in rough clothes. Jack and the Brat scanned the noisy, smoky room several times before they saw a familiar figure beckoning them over the heads of the other customers. Pushing their way through the crowd, they crossed the room and joined the two captains at a table in one of the private curtained booths that lined one wall of the taproom. Captain Harry's expression warmed at once.

"Ah. . . here's my Nina, at last!" he exclaimed, with a brilliant smile and a kiss for his only child. The Brat's widowed father was tall and almost excessively lean, with an aquiline nose and chiseled, angular face, which still managed to show some traces of humour and kindliness about his mouth and in the fine crow's feet at the corners of his slate-grey eyes. His thick hair was the ashy blonde colour that seemed to run in the Bitter family; lately, one could see a silver hair or two marking the advance of the years. He carried himself with a combination of grace and purposeful energy, and his voice had the ring and authority of a man long accustomed to leading others.

"Delighted to see you safe," he continued. "I wasn't easy about the two of you travelling such rough country so late, though I know better than to doubt Jack's resourcefulness." He beckoned to one of the barmaids for more food and drink; then turned to Jack, extending his hand. "Jack, glad to see you – good man," he said. "We've some work ahead of us tonight, so make sure you have a proper supper. The potato and sorrel pie is excellent with either the mutton or beef. How are you, lad?"

"Never better," answered Jack with a smile. Taking his seat, he nodded to his father. "Dad."

"Jacky," Teague returned the nod.

The long ride had given the two travelers hearty appetites, and once their supper arrived they lost no time devouring it. "Not so quick," cautioned Captain Harry. "We won't be setting out until a bit later, so take your time. The cutter is riding at anchor nearby, and we'll be leaving the inn through a passage near our table, to avoid attracting attention. Once we've weighed, Edward has worked out the watches."

Teague grunted and began to explain. "It'll take all of us to set the sails and take her out," he told them. "We'll have the pilot an' his boy with us. After that, we'll take four-hour watches in pairs. I'll take the first watch with Jacky; Harry and Nina can take the second. Four on, four off, right? When we near Pencarren, we'll need everyone handin' the sails and bringin' her in." He tapped his finger on his cheek. "Keep a weather eye. Any problems and it's all hands on deck."

"I could just go have a look at her provisions – make sure she's shipshape," offered Jack, hoping to avoid a long wait under his father's watchful gaze.

"She's been fitted out, rigged, provisioned and inspected. Ready to go out of harbour," growled Teague. "Patience, boy; we'll be off soon enough."

After perhaps half an hour, the innkeeper approached their table and began to wipe it clean with a rag. As he did so, he nodded once to Teague and handed him an unused taper. Lighting this from the candle on the table, Teague rose from his chair and moved quietly to a nearby door, followed by Bitter, Jack and Nina. On the other side of the door, they found themselves in a windowless passage lit only by the flame of their taper.

They walked in silence for some time, as the passage seemed to gradually descend. At last, the faint sounds of lapping water, the creak of wooden hulls and the salty, damp smell of the air indicated that they were about to emerge at the harbour. Teague led them from the tunnel to a small boat on the shingle, where the pilot and his boy waited to take them out to the ship.

Jack watched the pilot approach the Brat's father, who deposited a few coins in his palm. "No questions," Bitter said firmly. The pilot nodded; he and the boy climbed into their boat and rowed the small group out to the cutter.

Once on board, the pilot took the helm as Teague directed Jack and the others in hoisting and setting the sails. The cutter slipped her cable and made for the harbour entrance. As the ship cleared the harbour, the pilot and his boy boarded their small boat again, and were soon rowing back to shore.

Jack sauntered over to Captain Harry, who was making sure the lines were properly stowed. "Did Nina show you the scimitar she wants in Truro?" inquired Bitter.

"Aye," replied Jack, with hesitation in his voice, "but – I'm havin' a thought here – perhaps she's a bit young for it yet." He tried a concerned look.

"Nonsense, the sooner the better," Bitter responded, adding "Do you know, every year I've given her a half-guinea on her birthday to do with as she pleases. She's put all of them by so that she can purchase her own sword. Rather fine of her, I thought." He smiled with fatherly pride.

Jack winced, but quickly adjusted his features to seem pleased.

"You know," Bitter continued, "She's already learned to clean, load and fire a pistol. She's demonstrated the maturity to begin learning more skills. Why," he added with some exasperation, "If she were a lad, we wouldn't even be having this discussion."

 _If I had the bloody five guineas we wouldn't be havin' it either,_ Jack thought.

Finished with his task, Captain Harry made his way to the hatchway and went below, leaving Jack with his problem unsolved. Avoiding Teague, who would have the helm for another hour or so, Jack made his way towards the bowsprit, and sat on the lee side of the deck, his back against the hull.

It was just past midsummer, and they were sailing under a full moon. In spite of the late hour, the night sky was suffused with a soft, deep shade of ultramarine that made the moon appear slightly golden, with traces of rose marking its round countenance. The weather was fine and the night clear. Jack sighed. What a shame to waste a night like this! It was made for romance, he mused, romance and rum. Yet he was in the company of the P's and a vexing ten-year old to whom he owed money. Unhappily, this last reflection brought him round to his original problem: how was he to get the five guineas he had promised the Brat?

The journey to Pencarren took all of the following day and, late that afternoon, Teague announced that he expected to make port during the First Watch that evening. Jack made a mental calculation to assure himself that the rum supply, if not the wine, would easily last until their arrival.

Just at that moment, Captain Harry emerged from below deck with an unopened bottle which he handed to Jack. "That's the last of the Madeira," he said. "If you fancy a drink of wine, you'll have to deal with the cork. Looks like they pushed the stopper down too far, and now the neck's sealed with a bit too much cement. Fortunately, we're almost home."

Although he vastly preferred rum to wine, Jack took the bottle and saw at once that it would take some time to get it open. He had almost handed it back when inspiration struck. "I'll see to it," he remarked casually. As soon as Captain Harry turned away and started towards the stern, Jack hurried forward to see if Fate had provided a way out of his debt. He found the Brat where she had crawled out on the bowsprit in order to stare down at the waves breaking across the cutter's bow.

"Oi! Brat!" he called out cheerfully. "I've something new to teach you; it's called _wagering_. You'll love it!" He quickly explained the principles of this intriguing pursuit, then got down to its precise exercise.

"We'll have a proper wager," Jack said grandly, waving the bottle at her. "If I can climb to the top of the mast and back down before you can open this bottle, I win and I no longer owe you five guineas. If you open the bottle before I reach the deck, then _you_ win – and I _still_ owe you the five guineas, savvy?"

She narrowed her eyes at this proposition. "That's not fair. It's only what you owe me now. If I win, you should owe me five _more_ guineas. Double."

Jack cleared his throat. "Of course! That was me testin' you. Now I know you've got it sorted and you're ready to have a go," he smiled with an effort, and spread his hands. "Make your conditions, love."

She gave him a suspicious look, but then put her active mind to work. "You'll climb the mast? _Just_ the mast? You won't touch the ratlines? Footropes? Yards? Any lines or ropes at all? You'll climb all the way up and all the way down? No jumping down to the deck?"

"Naturally! I'm deeply wounded you think I'd cheat you, darlin'," he answered. "Quite dreadful what's become of the innocence of youth these days!"

She thought a bit more, adding, "You're to climb where I can see you."

"Agreed! And you're to open the bottle on deck," he replied, "Without help from the P's."

"Do you care if any of the drink is spilt? I can use anything I like as long as I open it myself?" she asked, making sure of the terms of their wager.

"Use any way you like, and spill what you must; I only require that it be open," he told her. "Are you ready?"

"Wait a bit," she said, trotting off quickly and disappearing below deck. In a few moments, he saw her emerge from the hatchway and approach him, the pockets of her breeches looking somewhat lumpy. "I'm ready," she announced.

They stood at the foot of the mast, and on her count of three, Jack began rapidly climbing. As he ascended, he glanced down to check her progress with the bottle. She was kneeling on the deck and he could see her pull a thin rope and something like a small block pulley from her pockets. She threaded the rope through the pulley, as if putting a bit of tackle together. "Unusual," thought Jack, frowning as he continued on his way up.

The next time he looked down, she was holding the block in the cone-like hollow in the base of the bottle. Looping one end of the rope about the neck, she made a sort of harness for the bottle, leaving about six feet of rope unused. Jack knitted his brows, trying to guess what she was up to.

When he reached the top of the mast, he looked down once more, and this time he watched as the Brat rose to her feet and, holding the loose end of the rope, began swinging the bottle in a great circle. Jack's eyes flashed with the sudden realisation that he was about to lose the wager, as she smashed the bottle against the mast and shards of green glass flew everywhere. She jumped backwards with a high-pitched scream, holding up her arms for protection, and then looked straight up the mast at him. "It's open! I've won!" she cried out, exulting.

Jack sighed dejectedly, and turned his gaze to the horizon. At first, the oddness of the sight before him failed to register. From the top of the mast, he could just see over the small point of land that concealed an inlet near Highcliffe House. He found himself staring at a very large, unfamiliar snow-brig, anchored stealthily in the inlet, where Jack had never before seen a vessel moored. Making a mental note to learn more about it once ashore in Pencarren, he descended the mast to find the Brat exuberantly celebrating her victory.

"I've won! I've won!" she shrieked, dancing about the deck. "I _love_ wagering!"

Jack crossed his arms. "I can see I've trained you up too well," he called out, over the noise of her laughter.

"Right! That'll do!" roared Captain Harry, striding towards them. "Why is my deck covered with dangerous broken glass, and who replaced my daughter with this wild, dancing monkey?" he said to the Brat.

She subsided at once. "I'm sorry, father. I . . . I lost my head," she assumed her most sweetly contrite look, to Jack's utter annoyance. "Please don't be angry. I'll clean it up myself, and I promise not to be so wayward again."

"Indeed you shall clean it up. I thought you were past these sorts of antics. And as for you," Captain Harry said as he turned to Jack, "Perhaps you could try to repay my trust in you by providing a modicum of mature guidance?"

"Aye, sir," Jack mumbled apologetically, relieved that Captain Harry did not seem inclined to enquire too closely into the situation. As Jack watched him make his way back to the helm, he heard a quiet voice at his side.

"Ten guineas," the Brat said, under her breath.

 


	2. The Snow-Brig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack learns more of the snow-brig, and an opportunity presents itself.

The winds were light and the water smooth when Teague steered the new cutter slowly into the cove near Highcliffe House. Named for the sheerness of the drop where its granite cliffs fell straight to the shore, Highcliffe was a prosperous but remote estate that held several farms, cottages, and two houses. The largest and finest of these was Highcliffe House, which stood like a sentinel above the town of Pencarren. Highcliffe House was home to the Brat and her father who, in Jack's opinion, rattled about the draughty place like two beans in a bucket.

But as the cutter glided into the cove, Jack saw the Brat look about and sigh with happiness. "Good t' be home, eh, darlin'?" he couldn't resist asking. The Brat loved every inch of Highcliffe, and was generally to be found in her boy's garb and boots, roaming along its paths or wading through the salty tidal pools that spread across the broad shoreline.

They anchored the cutter not a hundred yards from the snow-brig, and Jack looked for a chance to satisfy his curiosity regarding the strange ship. Teague, however, kept him quite busy stowing lines, making fast the anchor, and attending to numerous other tasks. Wish there were six o' me, Jack thought.

When the work was done, Jack found that Peter Dawes, one of Captain Harry's friends from the nearby gypsy encampment, was waiting in the Bitters' small boat, ready to take the four travellers to shore. Once in the boat, the Brat, plainly curious, gawked at the strange snow, but said nothing. Her father was lost in thought and did not even glance in its direction.

Jack would have questioned Peter Dawes; but each time he opened his mouth, Teague fixed him with a moody stare. He decided to seek a more pliant source of information, and Tamsin Rawle, whose father was the tavern keeper at the Red Lion, was as generous with gossip as she was with her favours. Jack decided he would sample some of the Red Lion's wares in the not-too-distant future.

As soon as the boat reached shore, Peter Dawes bade them good-bye and set off on foot for the camp. With a quick nod of his head, Teague also departed, bound for the _Misty Lady_. Jack, Captain Bitter, and the Brat climbed the stone steps that led up from the cove to Highcliffe's gardens, the Brat bouncing ahead of Jack and her father. Bitter paused a moment on the steps, turned to Jack, and asked, "If you've no immediate plans, might I possibly prevail upon you to look in on Nina over the next three weeks? I'm wanted in London on the King's errand, and I mean to leave in the morning."

Jack nodded absently, his mind still on the snow. "Aye, Harry," he said. "I'll see to it."

The next morning, just as the autumn sun began to turn the stubble fields to gold, Captain Bitter swung up into the saddle of his favourite horse, a black stallion named Achilles, and set off for London, riding east on the rutted post road. With both Teague and Bitter absent, Jack decided to conduct his own inspection of the snow, alone. He found the Brat at the stable, happily helping to feed and brush the Bitters' other horses.

"I see your dad's nipped off to London," he observed cheerfully. "Any idea when he'll be back?"

The Brat's face fell at the mention of London. Dropping the brush she was using, she turned to Jack with a troubled look. "He's riding, you know," she said, as though this were a portent of calamity. "He's riding Achilles." She paused dramatically. " _Achilles_. He wouldn't listen to me."

Jack nodded wisely, then tilted his head to one side studying, in turn, the stable door, the rafters, and the ground at his feet, in search of her meaning. "Ah," he said at last. "This would be about the horse's name; am I right?"

"Achilles was unlucky. Paris _killed_ him," she explained, staring hard at Jack to make sure he heard each word.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that Paris, enjoyed to the fullest, could kill any man, when he realised she didn't mean the city; she was referring to the warriors at the siege of Troy. "Well, they all ran round killin' each other, didn't they, love?" he said, "I mean, that's your Greek epic poetry, innit?" He patted her on the shoulder. "Never mind, mouse; Achilles killed Hector, before Paris got 'im. So there you are – troublemakers, the lot of 'em."

He picked up the brush she had dropped and handed it to her. "I'm off to see to some business – be back before supper." He turned to leave, then spun back around to face her. "You'll be here, will ye? Not plannin' any rides, treks, visits, or otherwise perambulatory activities along the shore?" he asked, wriggling his fingers as if pulling the possibilities out of thin air. She shook her head.

"Well, no worries, then." He smiled toothily and sauntered off.

Jack rowed himself out to the snow, tied the boat's painter to the ship's ladder, and scrambled up on deck to have a look. The snow was an impressive ship, he thought, with no less than three headsails and two masts, square-rigged, with four yards each. Captain Bitter's new cutter looked diminutive next to it.

Strolling about the deck, Jack examined her from stem to stern, and speculated. It seemed to him that the gear, although put away neatly, had not been stowed properly by the hands of able seamen. He tried the hatch covers, which were battened down securely, and the doors to the companionways, which were likewise padlocked. A merchant vessel this large would surely be a topic of conversation in little Pencarren; he decided to see what Tamsin could tell him.

When he announced at supper that he was going down to the Red Lion for a tot of rum, the Brat fixed him with a reproachful stare, which he interpreted correctly to mean that she disapproved of further expenditures on the part of her debtor. He endeavoured to ease her mind by explaining the economics of the public house to her.

"Look here, Brat, rum is so plentiful, it's as common as grass, and just as cheap," he began.

"Grass is free," she pointed out.

"Right; well, I grant you, said rum is slightly less common than grass," he countered. "Believe me, mouse, I could drink their cellar dry – hundreds of bottles – and it wouldn't be anywhere near what I owe you."

This was rather an exaggeration, but he knew she would have to accept his word on it. "Now it's off to bed with you," he went on, making shooing motions with his hands, "Or reading, or whatever it is you get up to. I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow" – the Brat rolled her eyes and he quickly amended his promise – "or, certainly by eight bells o' the forenoon watch."

"Everyone's always going off," she muttered with a sigh. Jack pretended not to hear; he adjusted his hat and cuffs, and departed.

When he arrived at the Red Lion, Tamsin Rawle was deep in conversation with an older man whose tanned, angular face and straight blond hair gave him a handsome, dashing look. Two of Tamsin's sisters were managing the customers, whilst Tamsin leaned on one elbow with a starry expression in her eyes, talking to the blond man. She moved her eyes just enough to catch Jack's entrance on the other side of the taproom, then, ignoring his attempt to wave a greeting, continued her conversation. Nothing daunted, Jack called for a bottle and tankard, which he took to their table.

"Hullo, darlin'," he said to Tamsin. "Who's yer friend?" He saluted the blond man with his tankard and took a generous swallow of rum.

"'Is name's Anders. Ee's from Sweden," Tamsin said, keeping her eyes on Anders.

"Denmark," Anders said, extending a hand to Jack. "And you are—?"

"Captain Jack Sparrow," Jack answered, shaking Anders' hand. He expected Tamsin to scoff at his prematurely added title, but she sipped her drink in resentful silence. Anders quickly drank off the rest of his tankard and took his leave, despite Tamsin's best efforts to beguile him into staying. As he exited, she gave Jack a sharp look.

"Tes six weeks I've toiled to get 'im this far, an' who shows up? Why, tes me old friend Jack!" Tamsin huffed. "An' where 'ave you been for the last year, I should like to know, eh? I suspicioned you'd gone off the edge o' the earth."

"Now, love, you know I always turn up," said Jack, holding out his hand in supplication. He looked deep into her eyes and saw that she was beginning to waver. "If yer not workin' tonight, darlin'," he said, "an' you've quite forgiven old Jack, we might pass some time together." He waited; then he saw her laugh under her breath.

"Jack Sparrow, ye'll be the death o' me or I'm a heathen," she replied, shaking her head. "All right, you – what's on yer mind then, an' don't tell me tes nothin'."

"Well," Jack said, settling in and putting an arm around her, "I did wonder, when I came sailin' up the coast – just to see you, love! – what a snow-brig might be doin' hidden in a cove what's almost too small to hold 'er."

Tamsin's eyes sparkled with excitement; she loved being at the centre of attention, and now she had news that she knew would fascinate Jack. "As it happens," she said softly, "I might have heared a bit about that. Her's a smugglin' ship" – Tamsin looked around the taproom – "took'n by the Customs House. The _Smiling Katie_. The revenue men 'ad nowhere t' store 'er cargo, so they had to leave it on her. They're waitin' for room at one o' the storehouses." She sipped from her tankard, watching Jack over its rim.

Jack quickly sorted a list of questions that had popped into his head, and chose the one with the best chance of keeping Tamsin talking. He snorted, "You're makin' that up, you are! Smugglers using a great hulkin' vessel like that? They might as well fire their guns as they sail into port. Smugglers, love, use luggers an' wherries, not bloody great ships like that!"

"An' who should know betterer than me?" Tamsin fired back. "My uncle did trade in uncustomed goods for years! They uses the big 'uns to make the crossing, then they uses dozens o' little boats t' split the cargo an' take it ashore." She gave Jack a smug look. "That way, the preventive services can't get it all. The smugglers land the goods everywhere, as sly as you like."

"Apparently not quite as sly as you say," Jack answered. "Or there wouldn't be a snow-brig anchored in the cove with all her contraband, would there?" He leaned forward, locking eyes with Tamsin, who gazed at him the way the Brat had gazed at the scimitar in the shop window. "And who might be runnin' such a large ring with enough vessels to move all those goods?" he asked.

Tamsin inclined her head towards the wall, and Jack saw a poster tacked to it. He glanced around the taproom, then strolled over to read the notice. There was a sketch of a man with a lantern-jawed face, beaky nose, and angry scowl, labelled "Capt. Thomas Hawkhurst", and under it was a notice from the Customs House that read, in part: "whosoever can lay information leading to the capture of HAWKHURST, his ships or their crews will receive a reward of £12,000 from His Majesty's Government." Jack returned to Tamsin with a thoughtful look on his face.

"So, am I to understand that someone has captured said Hawkhurst and come in for a generous reward?" he asked. Tamsin nodded.

"They picked up most o' the Hawkhurst gang," she said, "includin' him, an' took 'em off to gaol. They catched the snow when they were puttin' the brandy into draggers for landing." Jack was surprised and impressed with her command of smuggler's terms, but one word in particular had caught his ear.

"Brandy?" he enquired, drawing his eyebrows together as he concentrated. "That was the cargo?" He lowered his voice and leaned across the table. "And 'ow much brandy might be left on the snow?"

"Well, they didn't get the whole crop, y'know," she said. "I think there was about a thousand half-ankers left on the _Smilin' Katie_ , when she was took."

"No wonder she's smilin'," murmured Jack. He darted a glance at Tamsin out of the corner of his eye and flashed a distracted smile, but he was beginning to feel the need for solitude in which to mull the possibilities at hand. "A thousand half-ankers?" he mused. "What would that be worth, I wonder?"

"Four quid apiece," she answered promptly with a grin. "But no one's mad enough to touch it. If Hawkhurst gets loose before ee's turned off, he'll butcher every man who took his goods or gave information. He's a ruthless bastard and 'is gang 'ud tear ee to shreds. No one crosses 'em – they killed three King's officers near Fowey last year – throwed 'em down a well."

"So . . . four thousand pounds, you think?" Jack asked, having calculated that four thousand pounds less ten guineas would be enough to buy two ships. Tamsin gave him a knowing look. "I mean," he hastened to add, "just for the sake of argument, love. Who'd be fool enough to take on Hawkhurst?"

"Oh, I might know someone," she replied, eyeing him. "But I'd strongly advise him t' think better of it."

Just then, Mr Rawle came in from the kitchen. "Tamsin!" he shouted from the door. "I suppose the bottles'll count themselves?" Tamsin jumped up from her seat at once.

"Good-night, Jack. I've to count th' cellar," she said. "I've a good head for figures."

"You'll be running this place one day, darlin'," said Jack, raising his tankard in a toast. Tamsin flashed him a quick smile and vanished into the Red Lion's kitchen.

Jack walked back to Highcliffe House convinced that the opportune moment had arrived for him to profit from the large, unguarded supply of brandy. He would have to find a way to get the brandy off the snow, for one thing. Then it would have to be stored until he could find buyers. A half-anker was a small enough cask at three gallons or so, but moving a thousand of them would be daunting. And there was the matter of the locks on all the hatches.

He stopped walking, and stood with a frown, swaying slightly. He knew someone who could pick locks; in fact, she had quite a talent for it. Unfortunately, she was the same suspicious ten-year old to whom he owed money. Her father delighted in teaching her some of the skills that were useful in his adventurous profession – horse riding, foreign languages, weaponry – but also more dubious accomplishments, including lock-picking as a means of escaping confinement.

But she wouldn't know the value of the brandy. Perhaps he could tell her it was worth twenty guineas, which they would share equally. He could bring her in as a sort of junior partner, and she would unlock the hatches for him. In fact, perhaps she could help him store some of the brandy in Highcliffe, which had scores of closets and lumber rooms.

By the time he reached Highcliffe House, Jack had his plans well in hand. He found the household had gone to bed, leaving the door barred and the lights out, but he wanted to present his plan to the Brat without delay. He walked around to her window and tossed a few pebbles at it. After a few moments, he saw the window open and the Brat's head poked out. She looked about, and Jack waved his hat to catch her eye.

"D' ye fancy a flutter in the old trade, love?" he asked.

There was a long silence, then she said, "I'm coming down," and shut the window.

After a little while, Jack saw the window open. The Brat climbed out in her boy's clothes, and came nimbly down the outside pipe. "I thought you said you'd be back at breakfast," she mumbled with a yawn.

"Aye, mousie," Jack answered with a smile. "But I had a thought. Let's walk a bit an' I'll tell you a tale."

They walked along the sandy shore, and Jack explained: smugglers had left an untended cargo on the snow-brig worth twenty pounds, and now they were never coming back for it. If she would help him get it off the ship and hide it, he would sell it and pay her the money he owed. He would even give her another guinea for helping him. He watched her anxiously as they walked, trying to gauge her reaction.

"What happened to the smugglers?" was her first question.

"Well! It's all over for that lot," he told her. "They've been sent to gaol, and likely won't be among the living much longer. So the cargo is really sort of . . . abandoned, if you like. It belongs to whoever finds it. Like buried treasure." The Brat looked thoughtful, then ventured another query.

"What did you say the snow is called?" she asked.

Jack narrowed his eyes. "I know what you're on about," he said. "She's called _Smiling Katie_ , an' there's naught unlucky about that. Trust me, darlin' – it'll be a lucky venture for us both."

"What about Tamsin?" she asked. "She told you about it in the first place. Won't she expect a share?"

Oh, perhaps if she knew what I was up to, thought Jack, looking up at the stars. But he said, "Leave that to me, love. I'll deal with her fairly." The Brat nodded, and he knew she was beginning to be persuaded.

"We'd have to get a bit of help to move it all," she said slowly. "What do you think that would cost?"

Jack smiled indulgently. "Only a shilling or two," he hazarded, wondering where she was leading him.

"It's to come out of your share, not mine," she proposed. Jack frowned, and she quickly explained, "I'll loan you the horses, so you should pay for the work." Jack cleared his throat, but couldn't deny the logic of her argument, and he was quite impressed with her next idea.

"You can ask Noah and Sam to help," she suggested, naming two boys from the gypsy camp. "They'll keep it a secret. Then I'll bring the horses – oh!" she exclaimed. "We need to put something over their hooves, so they don't make noise!" She saw Jack's startled expression. "I heard Mr Rawle tell father that the old smugglers always did it that way."

"Sharp ears," murmured Jack with a smile.

"I'll lead the horses up to Highcliffe, but I need someone to unload the casks," she looked questioningly at Jack.

"You mean there's something you haven't worked out?" Jack teased her. "Don't worry, love. I'll take charge of it." He patted her on the head. "Do we have an accord?" he asked with a grin, extending his hand.

"We have an accord," she answered, smiling back at him.

Next: The cargo is landed and there is a change of plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original plots and characters are owned by me.


	3. The Plundering of the Smiling Katie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and the Brat plot to store their cargo in two unlikely locations, and Jack decides on a change of plans.

 It had been nearly three in the morning when Jack and the Brat reached an accord. Therefore, it was unsurprising that the next day found Highcliffe House silent throughout the morning, save for the sedate ticking of the longcase clock tucked into a corner of the Great Hall. There was no sign of the Brat, and the Bitters' housekeeper had gone to the butcher shop in Pencarren. In the library, a young man lay stretched out upon a settle not quite long enough to accommodate him: his booted feet were propped up at one end and his head was supported by a worn cushion at the other. He seemed to be sleeping soundly, with arms folded across his body and chin resting upon his chest. His tricorne hat was tilted over his eyes to keep out the light.

Jack Sparrow was not asleep, however; he was reviewing each step of the enterprise he had planned for that evening.

He had dismissed the Brat's romantic idea of transporting the _Katie's_ cargo with pack horses – there was far too much of it. It would take, he reckoned, a caravan of more than one hundred horses to carry that many ankers of brandy, and the Bitters had only five, including the Brat's pony. The cargo would have to be shifted as quickly as possible, and at night to avoid attracting attention. Jack concluded that it would be more practical to rig a hoist and haul the goods up the side of the cliff. He guessed that he should be able to move it all in three nights, using only the Bitters' horses, three lads from the gipsy encampment, and the Brat, who would insist on taking part.

He heard the sound of someone's throat being cleared, and looked out from under his hat to find the Brat standing in the doorway. She was in her usual linen shirt and loose-hanging waistcoat over dark knee-breeches with the strings untied at her knees. She had a pile of rags and twine in her hands, and Jack noticed a lump on one side of the waistcoat. He frowned.

"You're not carryin' a flask, are you?" he asked. "Because you're a bit young yet—" he stopped as she tossed the rags onto her father's desk, and adjusted the waistcoat to reveal a large, sinister-looking folding knife. She pulled it out of her waistband and opened the clasp. The knife was perhaps ten inches long, with a stabbing point, and two different edges; serrated on one side and curved on the other. A multitude of crude and mysterious engravings decorated the blade, and the handle was oddly crooked.

Jack stared, drawing his eyebrows together. "What the bloody hell are you doin' with that . . . that gelding knife?" he demanded, gesturing at the weapon.

"It's not a gelding knife," said the Brat hotly. "It's a fighting knife! It's called a navaja. And I need it in case of danger. I ought to have something."

Jack instantly sensed the presence of a theme that would draw the conversation towards the scimitar purchase just as an undertow pulls an unwary ship onto dangerous rocks and, like a prudent captain, he steered the discussion back to calmer waters. Sitting up, he patted the settle. The Brat approached with bouncing steps and jumped up beside him. Like a flea, he thought wearily.

"These would be for the horses' hooves, I presume?" he asked, pointing at the bundle of rags. She nodded.

"Well done, love," he smiled, "But I think we'd best be changin' one or two things."

He explained the advantages of rigging the hoist, emphasising the important role she would still play. "You've to lead the horses across the garden when I give the word, so they can pull up the net properly. And don't forget," he added, "I need you to pick the locks on the _Katie_ so's we can get our hands on the brandy to begin with."

At this last remark, her face brightened. "Shall I pick the locks now?" she asked. "Will you take me aboard the snow?"

"You took the words right out of me mouth, love. That is exactly what I had been about t' propose," said Jack, who had not been about to propose any such thing. "Let's have a look, shall we?"

They rowed out to the snow in the Bitters' small shore boat, and Jack directed the Brat to the main hatchway. She crouched over the padlock in silence, and Jack waited as she examined it. At last she took a slender pick from the pocket of her breeches, and used it to carefully extract a bit of wood from the lock. "Look," she said, holding it up for his inspection. "Someone's been at the lock."

Jack's face registered shock and disapproval. "Did they get in?" he asked, feeling quite as outraged as if it were his own cargo.

"You can't tell," she replied. "But I can open it for you." She turned back to the lock, and after a few moments, Jack heard a snick, as it opened.

"Stand back and wait for me," he told her, and pulled the cover off the hatchway. He climbed down the ladder into the hold, which smelt strongly of brandy, and made a rough count of the half-ankers. When he finished, he counted again to make sure. If Tamsin had been correct about there being a thousand of them, then someone had surely broken in and helped themselves, for now there were only seven hundred and forty. Jack narrowed his eyes and tried to think who might have taken the missing brandy.

"What are you doing?" he heard the Brat call through the hatchway. "When can I come down as well?" Jack climbed back up to the deck at once.

"No need, love; I'll show you later," he said. He climbed out and pulled the hatch cover back into place. Looking up at the rigging, he noticed that a hoist had been rigged above the hatch. He was certain that there had been no hoist there on the previous day; the persons responsible for removing the ankers intended to return, by the look of it, and had saved themselves some work by leaving the hoist in place. That's handy, Jack thought. Saves us some work as well, when I get me hands on the rest of it tonight.

He made the Brat wait while he assembled the rest of the nets, lines, and pulleys he would need to rig the hoist at the top of the cliff. "Watch yerself, mouse," he cautioned, as the Brat boarded the boat, stepping over the many coils of rope. As they rowed back to shore, he assigned her more duties. "You've t' get Noah, Sam, an' that cousin of theirs – the really heavy cove –"

"Rob," the Brat interjected.

"Aye, Rob. Perfect name for this line o' work," Jack remarked. "Now don't you name a price – just say Jack'll see 'em right for a fair night's work. We'll all meet in the garden just after sunset. You're t' harness the horses and bring 'em. And make sure we're not disturbed. Can you send Mrs Curtain an' Thomas off for the night?" he asked, naming the housekeeper and groom. The Brat nodded, smiling.

"Wot are you grinnin' about?" Jack teased her.

"This is fun," she answered.

Just after four o'clock that afternoon, Jack himself carefully set up a hoist in an oak tree at the edge of the garden to bring the cargo from the shore up the side of the cliff. The Brat assured Thomas that Jack had permission to do this. "It's to do with father's cutter. I'm not allowed to say more," she told him.

That evening, the small band of novice smugglers met in the garden. The Brat was holding the horses, four of them harnessed with what seemed to be the tack used to draw the Bitters' family coach, whilst the Brat's pony wore the harness used with her cart. The three Smith boys, Noah, Sam, and cousin Rob, with their black hair and large dark eyes, were all standing beside her when Jack arrived.

"Wait here," Jack instructed the Brat, "An' you lot, follow me."

He led the Smith boys down to the shore, and they watched as he secured one end of a very long line by tying it around a huge rock. He unwound the rest, taking it on board the shore boat, and they rowed out to the _Katie_. The Smiths climbed aboard the _Katie_ whilst Jack tied up the boat's painter and fastened the long line to the ship.

They untied the hoist and lowered the tackle through the main hatch. Jack and Sam went into the hold, spread out the net, and began moving the ankers on to it. When Jack judged it full, he scrambled out and helped Noah and Rob turn the capstan to lift the load through the hatch. He hooked the net with a gaff, swinging it clear of the hatch, and in no time the ankers were standing on the deck, as the empty net was lowered once more. "We'll clear out the hold first, and then move 'em to shore," Jack said.

As they brought up the second load, however, he noticed a change on the horizon that made him swear under his breath; a thick, white line had formed just where the sea and sky should meet.

"We've got sea fog comin' in," he informed Sam. He reckoned they had perhaps four hours in which to ferry the ankers ashore and hoist them up the cliff – not nearly enough time.

Noah had already loaded the boat with as many ankers as it could carry, and was drawing it to shore by pulling it along the line Jack had set. Then he unloaded the boat, while Jack, Sam, and Rob emptied more of the hold.

By the time the fog drew near, it was nearly midnight, the hold was empty, and although a great many ankers had been put ashore, most of the cargo was still on the _Katie's_ deck. Jack and the Smith boys untied the long line, and rowed to shore for the second phase of their work.

"Go give 'er a hand with the horses," Jack said to Rob. "An' we'll load the net. Three pulls on the rope means bring up the load, right? Get the ankers out, and send it back down."

Over the next two hours, Jack, Sam and Noah sent five loads up the side of the cliff. When they finished, the air was beginning to fill with wisps of fog. It would take too long and be too dangerous to hoist any more ankers – but what to do about the cargo still on the _Katie's_ deck?

As Jack pondered this question, his eye was drawn to the cutter, riding peacefully at anchor only one hundred yards away. "Stay here, mates," he told his friends. "Back in a trice," he added over his shoulder as he hastily climbed the stone steps to Highcliffe.

At the top of the steps, Jack was surprised to find that Rob had been joined by Thomas, and the two of them were rolling the ankers towards the house. "Here – what's all this?" he growled at the Brat, who was holding the horses and directing the two boys.

"Thomas is helping," she informed him.

"Thomas is a sly one," Jack remarked. "I don't suppose you offered 'im an anker in exchange?"

"Two," she replied. "You said it wasn't worth much, so I thought—"

"Then think no more, darlin'," he said, imagining Thomas' delight in being offered the equivalent of three month's wages for a single night's work. "I'm in charge of the plunder; you're in charge of the horses, savvy? No more accords unless you speak t' me first, right?" He waved at Thomas and forced himself to grin before dashing back down to the shore.

"Let's go, lads," he said to Sam and Noah. This time, they rowed out to the cutter, Jack taking the long line with him, and tying it as before. "Whatever y' do," he said, "Don't cut this loose – it's the only way we'll find the shore after the fog sets in." He tied off the Bitters' boat, and took Noah and Sam aboard the cutter.

There was almost no air moving, and so the cutter drifted downwind gently as Jack paid out the anchor cable slowly and smoothly. Eventually, he brought the cutter alongside the snow, and cleated off the cable.

Sam and Noah watched respectfully as Jack went from bow to stern, tying the two ships together. "No offense intended, mates, but I've been at this a bit longer than either of you," he remarked over his shoulder, "An' it wouldn't do to have 'em drift apart – not with the work we'll be doin'." Then he nodded towards the gangplanks. "Release those an' lay 'em athwart the vessels amidships."

His two friends made haste to follow Jack's orders, and the three of them began rolling the ankers from the _Katie_ to the cutter. Jack opened the cutter's hatch, and the ankers were stowed in its much smaller hold.

By this time, the fog was heavier, and Jack was glad to have thought of this new plan; it was simpler and even faster than his original scheme. He only had to dispose of the brandy before the cutter was needed, and that seemed an easy enough proposition.

Dawn had broken by the time they finished, and they were exhausted – aching and sweating from their labour. As Sam rolled the last anker across, Jack stopped him by putting a foot on its side. "This one's yours," he told them.

After resting for a short time, Jack threw off the lines that bound the ships together, and carefully winched in the cable until the cutter was back in its original position. They loaded the Smiths' anker into the shore boat, untied the long line from the cutter, and used it to pull their boat to shore.

The Smiths and their anker disappeared silently into the fog, and Jack used his last bit of strength to climb the steps back to Highcliffe. He found no one in the garden, and the hoist had been removed, undoubtedly by Thomas. Jack heaved a grateful sigh. I suppose he earned his two ankers after all, he thought. Then he looked about him at the state of the garden.

The ground was torn up and several flower beds trampled, both from the horses and from the ankers being rolled hastily towards the house. And the horses had left other reminders of their presence, he realised, looking at the sole of one of his boots.

He made for the house, anxious to see where the Brat had stored the ankers, which he thought numbered about one hundred and forty. However, the house was dark and the Brat seemed to have retired. Jack poked through every closet and storeroom he knew of, but none contained the brandy. Frustrated, he resolved to awaken her and find out where she had put their plunder.

He knocked softly at her door, and the Brat cracked it open immediately. "I've been waiting all this time," she said reproachfully. "I thought you might want to count them again." She swung the door wide, and Jack groaned.

"You stowed 'em here, of all places?" he asked.

"Of course I did. Where did you think I would put them?" she replied, unperturbed.

"Oh, well, this won't be half obvious, will it!" he said, waving his hand as he strode about the room.

"I shall tell Mrs Curtain that she's not to go into my room," said the Brat serenely.

"The garden looks like the dog's dinner," Jack pointed out.

"I shall say I've been digging in it," she replied. Jack snorted.

"We're lucky the P's aren't here," he retorted. He pointed to his boot. "And what about all this, eh? It's all over the garden as well." The Brat shrugged.

"I've mucked out stalls before," she said. "Thomas and I will rake it up and toss it over the cliff."

Jack considered this briefly, then smiled. "Ah, well, why not? Y'know, Brat, sometimes your schemes are as mad as mine."

"What did you do with the rest of it?" she asked.

"Stowed safely on the cutter, to be sold before the P's return," he told her.

"I want to see," she demanded at once. "We're partners. I've a right."

Jack rolled his eyes. "And so you shall, but not today. Now get some rest and keep your door locked."

She nodded. "If you're tired, you might use Father's room," she offered. "Only take that boot off first."

"Ta, love, but it likely smells better than me feet," he answered with a grin. However, he did retire to Captain Harry's room, and slept soundly through most of the day.

The taproom at the Red Lion was noisy and crowded that night, and Tamsin bustled past Jack several times, bringing food and drink to the Lion's customers. Since he had yet to sell one of the ankers, Jack hadn't any money, and he was forced to rely upon the good graces of others who were buying rounds. In the end, this turned out to be a stroke of luck, since one of his benefactors was a farmer celebrating the upcoming wedding of his eldest daughter.

"I love weddings!" Jack said cheerily. "When's it set to go off?"

"Three months from now," replied the farmer. Jack had hoped for a shorter interval, sensing a possible buyer for some of the brandy; nevertheless, it was the best opportunity on offer that night, and so he pursued it.

"Everything set for the weddin' party?" he enquired. "Food, music, tables . . . drink?"

"I was set t' go t' Looe fer a tub o' fine brandy t' share out wi' me brother," the farmer said. Jack brightened at this, and before long a deal had been struck for one half-anker of brandy, finer than any in Looe, according to Jack.

His enthusiasm sagged a bit after he had walked all the way back to Highcliffe to retrieve it, argued the Brat out of accompanying him, and delivered it safe to the farmer – and at the end of it, only four quid was in his pocket.

At this rate, I'll need ten years to move the lot of it, he thought.

He needed to find customers that were interested in buying entire shipments and doing it quickly. And for that, he reasoned, he would need Tamsin.

Next: Jack finds a buyer and success seems assured (but things are seldom what they seem).

A/N: The plausibility of the hoists and the transfer of the barrels was checked by a journeyman millwright with a certification in rigging, and the author hereby extends grateful thanks for this work!


	4. At the Spider and Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack receives a warning, and the perfect buyer appears.

It could be said that the Red Lion was the heart of Pencarren, through which the town’s cultural lifeblood ran. Within the warm, homely taproom, everyone ate, drank, listened to news, spread gossip, and embarked on ventures both social and commercial; and Tamsin was present every night. Jack reasoned that the tavern keeper’s daughter would surely know where he might find a buyer of smuggled goods.

There was also the intriguing prospect of meeting Tamsin’s uncle.

It was widely known that this uncle had been a “lander” many years ago. A lander did not go to sea with smugglers, but he had the crucial job of getting their cargo ashore and transporting it safely, using crews of men and horses. Jack reckoned that this legendary personage might buy the brandy, if Tamsin was coaxed into introducing them.

During the day, Tamsin’s work generally kept her busy under her father’s watchful eye, and so Jack idled away the time, waiting for evening as he mused on thoughts of rum, profit, and new ships.

After supper, just as the longcase clock in Highcliffe’s hall began to strike the hour, Jack attempted to slip out, hoping the noise would cover the sound of his footsteps. He had almost reached the door when he heard a rush of footsteps coming down the stairs, and cries of, “Stop! Wait!”

Jack winced, but paused. _No escaping her now_ , he thought.

“I’m ready,” the Brat announced breathlessly, as soon as she reached him.

“Ready?” Jack looked puzzled and darted his eyes from one side to the other. “Ready for what, darlin’?”

“To help you sell the brandy,” she replied.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as he forced a bright smile. “Well . . . we’ll let me handle that alone, eh?” he said, making reassuring gestures with his hands. “You stay here and –”

“You think I’m not old enough!” she protested. “Just like the scimitar! No one lets me do anything!”

“Not true!” Jack countered. “You’ve to guard the goods you packed away upstairs, love. Or did you want Mrs Curtain nosing about your room?”

He could see that he had cornered her. She chewed her lower lip for a moment, then sighed. Jack patted her cheek and departed before she could object.

When he arrived at the Red Lion, he found the taproom noisy and crowded, even for a Saturday. He looked about for Tamsin, but didn’t see her. He got a friendly wave from Zak McCann, the farmer who had bought the single anker of brandy. McCann was in a corner, talking earnestly with two other men, neither of whom Jack recognised.

Just then, Tamsin emerged from the kitchen bearing a heavily laden tray. She spotted Jack at once, and kept her eyes fixed on him as she served food to a fisherman and his family.  Then she hurried across the room and pushed him into an alcove that put them out of earshot of most of the customers.

She tipped her head in the direction of McCann and said, “I heard ye selled some brandy to Zak.”

“I did indeed, darlin’,” Jack replied with a smile, pleased she had heard of his latest enterprise. Confident that it would impress her, he quickly filled in the details.

Tamsin was certainly impressed, although not in the way he had hoped.

“Yer stark, starin’ mad, Jack Sparrow! Only a madman would do that!” she hissed, darting furtive glances about the taproom to discover any eavesdroppers.

“Well, I have done it, and I’m not mad,” Jack replied. “What I _am,_ is in need of a customer, love. I thought perhaps your uncle –” But Tamsin cut him off instantly.

“Uncle Martin's out of it,” she snapped in an urgent whisper, pointing a warning finger at Jack. “The Lord set ‘is feet upon a new path, which be preachin’—”

“Find me a buyer and you’ll come in for a share as well,” Jack offered quickly, but Tamsin was firm.

“Not while there’s a breath in me body,” she retorted in the same low voice. Then she seized the lapel of his coat and dragged him towards the cellar door, taking the candle from a serving table and hurrying him down the steps.

Once in the cellar, Jack’s attention wandered as he stared appreciatively at the vast number of bottles, tubs and kegs. Tamsin set her candle on a long work table, and motioned for Jack to take a seat.

“Ye said ye wanted t’ be a good man,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “not like yer dad. What’s to do, Jack? Did ye turn pirate? Or smuggler, perhaps?”

“If I were either one I wouldn’t be workin’ for the EITC now, would I?” Jack replied. But the question grated on him and brought his difficult, piratical father to mind.

“Do ye have any notion o’ the joys awaitin’ ye if Hawkhurst should get out?” she continued.

Jack dismissed this with a half-smile and a bored look at the ceiling. “With all due respect, darlin’, that seems unlikely, don’ it?”

Tamsin exploded. “Well, ee ain’t _dead_ yet, is ee?”

“Exactly my point,” said Jack. “And that’s why I need to make a good market fast. For the whole lot.”

Tamsin tightened her mouth for a moment, as if she were deciding whether to disclose a secret. Then she sat down facing Jack and spoke quietly.

“Do you knaw why me uncle don’t follow the old trade no more?” she asked. “After twenty year o' bein’ the best lander in Cornwall?”

“Something about setting his feet on a new path?” Jack suggested.

Tamsin dismissed this with an impatient shake of her head. “Tes only what we tells everyone,” she said.

“And he hasn’t retired?” Jack asked. “Then why don’t he follow the old trade, as you put it?”

“T’wur Hawkhurst,” she replied in hushed tones. “He’s not a man ye can cross.” And leaning forward, she began to explain.

“Remember Old Dan?” she asked. “Two year back, summun told Hawkhurst that Dan gave information on him t’ the preventives. It weren’t true, but no matter -- Hawkhurst come stormin’ into the Lion lookin’ fer Dan. I seed him meself.”

She rose to her feet and began to pace back and forth as she talked.

“God, he was in a tearin’ rage! His eyes was lit like two sparks o’ hellfire, and ee was wavin’ two great pistols about,” she declared, flinging her arms to show the way Hawkhurst had brandished his weapons. “I was that afeard ee would blast us all!” she added, staring hard at Jack, as if daring him to disbelieve her.

“Dan was shiverin’ in his boots, but not a soul would stand up t’ Hawkhurst. Dan was tooken by that cutthroat, an’ was never seed again!” She paused, her hands on her hips. “At least, not ‘til they pulled his body out o’ the well where it were hidden, an’ brought him back here fer the inquest.”

“Bein’ dead six months in a well ‘adn’t done much fer him. Still, ye could see where ee was tortured by them murderin’ dogs,” she said. Then, pointing to the table where Jack was leaning on one elbow, she added “They laid ‘im out right ‘ere.”

Jack recoiled, his upper lip curled in disgust.

“Ye can ask Captain Bitter ‘ow that went,” she added flatly. “So last year when me uncle fell out with Hawkhurst, ee runned off. Otherwise, we might’ve had two inquests.”

She twisted her hands in agitation. “These days, Martin Rawle’s a hunted man who can’t show his face. I could drop dead meself, thinkin’ what Hawkhurst might do if ee found him . . .”

The cellar door banged open and Tamsin’s father called down, “Tamsin! Yer friend the Dutchman’s callin’ fer ye.”

“Ee means Anders,” she whispered to Jack hurriedly. She took a deep breath and composed herself. “Well, I’m off then.”

At the top step, she turned and looked back. “Mind what I tell ye, Jack Sparrow! That brandy’s as much as yer life’s worth. Cut away sharp, and don’t have no more t’ do with it.”

As she passed through the door, Jack could hear Mr Rawle grumbling to Tamsin, “Thur’s a limit to what a body can do – I don’t have eight pairs o’ hands.” Jack sat thinking for a moment, then stood up slowly and followed her out of the cellar.

When he emerged into the taproom, he found no sign of Tamsin or Anders. He noticed that Zak McCann was still talking to the same two men. All three paused and looked towards Jack as he passed by, then resumed their conversation.

As he left the Red Lion, Jack had a welcome inspiration. He remembered that there was a very small, disreputable pub up the road a bit, called the Spider and Fly. _Might as well try there,_ he thought.

As he walked past the stable, an ostler put his lantern on the ground and vanished round a corner. Without breaking stride, Jack picked up the lantern and sauntered up the road until Pencarren was behind him. After walking almost a mile, he arrived at his destination.

The Spider and Fly was a small, out-of-the-way establishment with a neglected air about it. A passer-by could walk right up to it without being able precisely to say whether it was a cottage or a kiddly. Jack blew out his lantern, and opened the door.

The shabby taproom was lit only by the light from the fireplace and perhaps four or five candles on a few rickety tables. There was a momentary lull in the conversation as Jack entered the room, and several pairs of eyes watched out of the gloom as he swayed over to the barman.

“What can I get ye?” asked the man.

Jack narrowed his eyes as he rocked forwards. “Bottle o’ rum,” he said.

The barman went to fetch a bottle, and Jack pondered the question of whether any likely buyer might be in the room. At that moment, the door open behind him, and he turned to see one of the men who had been talking to Zak McCann earlier. The man seemed disinclined to attract attention, and stood near the door as though he had just come in for a moment to warm his hands.

The sound of a bottle being placed on the bar drew Jack’s attention back to the barman. He searched his pockets for the coins he knew were not there, but before he could make an excuse to his host, an arm reached out and placed a coin on the bar. Jack looked up and found that the arm belonged to the man from the Red Lion.

The man smiled, picked up the rum bottle, and steered Jack out of the taproom in a purposeful manner. Once outside, he handed the bottle to Jack.

“Thanks for the rum, mate,” said Jack.

There was a waning moon that night, and it was difficult to make out the man’s features, but he gave the appearance of a burly man of medium height, with the strong shoulders of one who has been long accustomed to hard physical labour. _Looks like a porter,_ Jack thought.

The man took a few raspy breaths, and then spoke. “Jack Sparrow?” he asked. “Tes Zac McCann that sent me.”

This sounded promising. “That’d be _Captain_ Jack Sparrow,” said Jack. “What can I do for you, mate?”

“Me name’s . . . Samuel Haumann,” said the man.  “I might be interested in some goods.”

“Of an uncustomed nature?” Jack asked, taking a swig of rum. “You’re not a preventive, are you? Because if you are, it’s been a pleasure meeting you and I have no idea what you’re on about –”

“I’m no blasted preventive man,” Haumann cut in, “but an unlucky merchant! I put me money in a shipment o’ brandy, square as ye like – an’ didn’t the damned ship go down! But do me customers pity me? Not a snip! I can’t do nothin’ but get they more brandy to make up that what was lost. Zac said yer the man I need t’ see.”

“I see,” said Jack. “Might be able to help you. “How much do you need?”

“I’ll buy all ye have,” said Haumann.

Jack decided to begin with the ankers stored on the cutter. “Six hundred half-ankers?” he offered.

“Be that all of it?” Haumann sounded disappointed.

“P’raps six hundred twenty,” Jack replied, calculating that he could move twenty more barrels from the Brat’s room by himself.

“’Ow much to buy the lot?” Haumann enquired.

“Four quid apiece,” Jack told him, but Haumann shook his head.

“That’s what I sell ‘un for,” he said. “Ye’ll have to do betterer than that. A quid apiece.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“Done!’ exclaimed Jack. _I’ll still have enough to buy a ship,_ he thought. _Only a bit smaller._

They shook hands, then Haumann said, “One thing more: I need it brought to the Isle o’ Wight. Payment when ye deliver.”

This startled Jack, but he felt himself equal to the challenge. “As it happens,” he said, “bein’ a Captain, I have me own ship – a cutter, in fact. She’s fast enough, but I find meself short a crew.”

“Well, it don’t take many to sail a cutter,” answered Haumann. “I can sail with ye meself, and find two or three more hands. Can ye do it?”

“Aye,” said Jack. “What say you to sailin’ two days from now?”

They arranged to meet at the cove, and sail after sundown in two days’ time. As they parted, Jack asked one last question. “Can you give any assurance that you’re an honest man, apart from Zac McCann? The Isle of Wight’s a pig of a place to get to from here, and I expect fair dealin’.”

“Aye,” Haumann’s voice floated back as he disappeared into the shadows. “Tamsin Rawle – she’ll vouch that I be an honest trader.”

On the way back to Highcliffe, Tamsin’s earlier comment abruptly intruded on Jack’s thoughts: _You said you wanted t’ be a good man, not like yer dad._ This led him to unwelcome musings on his dealings with the Brat. As he walked, he weighed the consequences until it seemed as if he could hear two voices, one in each ear, and both were his own.

“Don’t tell her what the cargo’s worth and you’ll be all set,” he advised himself in one ear. “She can have ten guineas to buy the scimitar, and you’ll have twelve hundred! You can buy a ship! Then you’ll be a proper captain! Isn’t that what you want, _Captain_ Sparrow?”

“Then she’ll see you for the feculent maggot that you are,” said the voice in his other ear.

“How is that being a feculent maggot? She only expects ten,” the first voice objected.

“She expects half of what the cargo’s worth. That was the accord,” Jack’s second voice replied.

“It’s no worse than your father would do,” his first voice assured him.

“Oh?” said the second voice. “Did he ever break an accord?”

This thought unsettled Jack so much that he shook off his ruminations and quickened his pace until Highcliffe was in sight.

He found the Brat awake and rummaging about the library, looking for a tinder box. “Did you sell the brandy?” she asked immediately.

“Tell you tomorrow,” Jack answered. “Right now you should be asleep.”

“Tell me now,” she insisted, trying to blink the weariness out of her eyes.

“I’ll not tell you at all if you don’t go to sleep,” he replied, and pointed to the stairs. “Disobeying your captain is mutiny.” With a grudging _aye_ , she left the library and disappeared up the stairs.

After breakfast the next morning, Jack explained the sale to the Brat as they ascended the stairs to her room. She frowned, and cross-examined him on the particulars.

“But he _will_ pay the twenty guineas?” she asked, hearing that payment would be made when the cargo was delivered.

“Aye, twenty guineas,” Jack replied, cringing inwardly but holding fast to his lie.

“Why do you want to wait two days?” she went on. “Can’t you sail now?”

“Dark of the moon, love,” he answered with a wise look at her. “I don’t fancy any awkward encounters.” By this time they had reached the Brat’s room, and Jack made ready to move one of the half-ankers.

“I want to help,” said the Brat, trying to lift another barrel. Straining, she raised it a few inches off the floor. Jack laid his index finger on the barrel and forced her to lower it.

“Too heavy, darlin’,” he said. She looked so disappointed that he added, “Tell you what – when I’ve got ‘em on the cutter, you can help me tie ‘em down with the rest of the goods.”

This satisfied her enough to give him some peace and quiet; by suppertime, he had moved twenty ankers onto the cutter.

That evening, Jack and the Brat boarded the cutter and tied down the cargo. The Brat threw all her efforts into this endeavour, checking and re-checking everything in the hold, and afterwards joining Jack on deck to rest a bit before returning to shore.

The moon was nearly gone, and the clear night sky glittered with stars. “Show me Orion,” Jack challenged her.

When she hesitated, he quickly pointed out the stars marking Orion’s belt and sword. “See him now?” he asked. “Looks like he’s sleepin’, right? But just up there?” – he pointed to a reddish star – “That’s the eye of Taurus the bull, chargin’ down to kill Orion!”

The Brat looked alarmed, and Jack pointed out another star. “But hang on, love!” he said, “See that one? That’s Sirius, Orion’s dog, tryin’ to help, savvy? So the question is . . . how will it all end?”

“Does Orion win?” the Brat enquired anxiously.

“We’ll never know, will we? That’s where the old gods put them, and that’s where they’ll stay,” Jack replied breezily.

She was quiet a moment, then said very seriously, “If Taurus attacked you, I’d come and help you.”

Even knowing she had no other friends, Jack found this rather touching, and moved quickly to make light of things. “I’ll keep that in mind, love. If Taurus attacks me, I expect you to open fire on ‘im,” he said, patting one of the cutter’s bronze cannons.

“I want to learn how!” she suddenly declared. “Show me how it works!”

Jack was caught off-guard, but he obligingly went below and returned with the necessary items. He unplugged the cannon’s muzzle and uncovered the touch hole. “Right,” he told her, “Now, the first shot is just like loadin’ a pistol, but the next one’s a bit more . . . complex.”

The Brat watched intently as he put the charge in the muzzle and ran it back carefully with the rammer. She handed him a three pounder from the ready rack beside the cannon, and he loaded it in the same way as the charge. Then he stood back from the cannon.

“Now _if_ I was intendin’ to fire on me enemy,” he said with a grin, “which I am _not_ , I would put a quill through the touch ‘ole, pierce the charge, run out the gun, give the lanyard a pull, and fire the bastard.”

“Why can’t we fire it?” she asked.

“Because the town will think they’re bein’ attacked, and Harry will blame me when his only daughter turns up deaf tomorrow,” answered Jack. “Now: what shall we add to our secret word list for ‘cover your ears’?”

These words were an ongoing game between Jack and the Brat. They were ordinary words that would have secret meanings if the pair were confronted by danger; the Brat’s favourites being “bite”, which meant “run for your life”, and “rat”, which meant “drop to the ground”.  She smiled and instantly proposed, “Rum.”

“Ooh, I quite like that!” Jack said. “Why haven’t we ‘ad it before, I wonder?”

“I want to load a cannon,” said the Brat. So Jack supervised the loading of a second cannon, whereupon she looked up at him and said, “Now do we put it all back?”

Jack knew the work this would involve and decided that he would rather retire for the night with his flask. “Nah, we’ll leave it at the ready, just in case a nasty band o’ cutthroats attacks me on the voyage,” he said. “And if me dad turns up before I get back, you tell him I had a job come up for the EITC.”

“But I’m sailing with you!” she exclaimed.

Jack cleared his throat. “Please,” he said with a comforting smile, ”Let’s just –– _try_ not to do anything stupid. I promise to bring your money back, safe as houses, love. And I am a man of my word.”

She started to object, but Jack pointed to his chest with both hands. “ _Captain_ ,” he reminded her.

“Aye, Captain,” she said at once, and they returned to the house.

Later that night, Jack found himself thinking, a little ruefully, about her sincere but misplaced trust in him. Why couldn’t he be a bit more straightforward like, for example, Haumann? Was he really no better than his father? And how could Harry Bitter, a man of strong character, sustain a friendship with either him or Teague, let alone both of them?

Before he fell asleep, a strange thought occurred to him: if something were to go wrong, this might prove to have been his last conversation with the Brat, and only she would ever know what had become of him.

But everything seemed to be going so well – what could possibly upset his plans?

 

Next: Jack begins the journey to the Isle of Wight, and discovers what sort of crew he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Carribean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.


	5. Captain of the Cutter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack sets sail on Captain Harry's cutter with Haumann and a rather strange crew, but serious obstacles are beginning to threaten his plans.

“ _Allotted_ ,” Jack said, “has two t’s, love.” He handed the paper back to the Brat, who began copying the words onto a new scrap of parchment. Jack tried to stifle his impatience, reminding himself that he would need her willing cooperation in order to keep the smuggling enterprise secret from Teague and Captain Harry.

The Brat had begun the morning by insisting that, just as pirates sign Articles, she and Jack should have an agreement about how their profits were to be divided. As a result, they found themselves in Harry's library as the Brat, seated on a chair that was too tall for her, penned their agreement for the third time. She finished writing, frowned at the document, and dried it carefully by sprinkling sand on the paper and gently shaking it off. Jack stood over her shoulder and read:

_Equal shares from the cargo of brandy will be allotted to each partner._

_Signed, N. Bitter_

“Now you sign,” she said, handing him the quill.

“Sure you don’t want it in blood?” he asked with a grin. He dipped the quill in the inkwell, and, with a flourish, wrote “Capt. Jack Sparrow” under her name. “Satisfied?” he asked. She nodded as she dried the ink once more.

Jack made his way toward the door, but as he passed the windows, he suddenly noticed a dogcart belonging to the Red Lion standing in the drive. He hurried back to the library.

“You ‘aven’t see me,” he instructed the Brat, and slipped out the French doors into the garden just as the sound of someone knocking reverberated through the front hall.

The Brat ran to open the door, and found Tamsin Rawle standing outside. Tamsin had been twisting her hands together in some agitation, but the moment the door opened to reveal Captain Bitter’s young daughter, she put on her brightest manner.

“Good morning, Miss Nina,” she said with a smile and a nod. “Sorry to trouble ye, but I d’ wonder if ye seed Jack Sparrow about.”

“I haven’t seen him,” replied the Brat, swallowing. She was tracing the door’s edge with her fingers, and Tamsin decided to press her, just in case Jack was lurking nearby.

“I need a word with ‘im,” she said in a confidential tone. “I’ve important news for ‘im.”

“I think I might see him later,” the Brat replied, but Tamsin shook her head.

“Ee needs t’ know right now, an’ I’m on me way t’ Polperro,” she said. The Brat bit her lip and looked away with a sigh.

“Right, then,” said Tamsin, putting her hands on the Brat’s arms and staring her in the eye. “Look – ye’ve got t’ tell ‘im that Hawkhurst is out. Can ye do that? Hawkhurst is out an’ no one knows where ee’s got to.”

The Brat nodded, but Tamsin could see that the girl had no idea who Hawkhurst might be. She debated how many of Hawkhurst’s bloody deeds would be too much to tell a lass of ten years, and decided on a different approach.

“That Hawkhurst is a right bad ’un,” she said, squeezing the Brat’s arms. “Ye don’t want nothin’ t’ happen t’ Jack, do ye?”

“No!” said the Brat, and Tamsin was gratified to see a hint of alarm in her eyes.

“Then ye must tell ‘im as soon as ever ye see ‘im. Promise!”

“I promise,” replied the Brat.

“Good lass,” said Tamsin. She returned to the dogcart, but before she flicked the end of her whip at the horse, she called back, “Don’t forget!”

“I won’t,” answered the Brat, waving as Tamsin drove away.

As soon as Jack heard the Brat’s footsteps in the library, he popped back in through the French doors. “Well done, love,” he told her, and got a suspicious look in return.

“Tamsin is going to Polperro,” the Brat announced. “She wanted to tell you that Hawkhurst is out and no one knows where he is.”

“Hmm,” said Jack, relieved that he had never mentioned Hawkhurst’s name to the Brat.

“Did you take one of the Rawles’ horses?” she ventured.

He laughed. “Nah, darlin’. Hawkhurst’s no horse – he’s just a mate o’ mine. Must’ve done a moonlight flit,” he replied with a shrug. “Nothing to do with me.”

“Tamsin said something might happen to you,” the Brat probed.

“Well, I might owe ‘im a quid or two,” he lied nonchalantly. “But we’ll all be square with one another after I get paid for the brandy, love. No worries; it’s all going according t’ plan.”

With Tamsin safely out of the way, Jack went into Pencarren for some bread, cheese and a good supply of rum to see himself through the voyage. At one end of the High Street, he was pleased to see a preventive officer distributing advertisements with Hawkhurst’s face on them.

“I’ll ‘ave one o’ them,” he said. Taking the paper from the officer, he strolled down the street. “ _Whereas_ . . . “ he began, reading to himself, “ _Thomas Hawkhurst and a party of men . . . night of the 7 th instant . . . with force and violence escaped . . .  feloniously seized vessel . . ._ “ – his eyes jumped to the end of the announcement . . .” _A REWARD OF £13,000 to any person who will discover and apprehend . . ._ ”

 _Seems the market’s gone up a bit,_ thought Jack. Unconcerned, he folded the paper and stuffed it in a pocket of his coat.

When he returned to Highcliffe, Jack nearly collided with the Brat as she came through the front door. “I’m off to see Rob Smith,” she told him before he had even asked. “I’m expected. I need to talk to him.”

“As ye like, love,” said Jack as the Brat hurried past him.

He took his provisions out to the cutter (excepting one bottle of rum), using the Bitters’ small dingy. Unsure of how many men Haumann planned to bring along, Jack eyed the shore boat stowed on the cutter’s deck. Finally, he loosed the larger boat and pushed it off into the water. Tying it to the dingy, he brought both boats back to shore.

Jack passed the remainder of the day quietly in the library, finishing off the rum. As sunset drew near, he realised that he hadn’t seen the Brat, and decided to have a look upstairs for her. He found the door to her room shut, and was pleased to see that she had tacked a large notice to it, which read “DO NOT OPEN THIS DOOR”.

He took a quick look inside, but the room was empty. She was evidently still visiting her friend Rob at the gypsy encampment. Jack had intended to say good-bye to her before going down to the cove, but the chance to slip away unnoticed appealed to him even more. _I’ll be back before y’ know it, mouse,_ he thought.

Just after sunset, Jack made his way down the stone steps to the cove, lantern in hand and another bottle of rum in the other. He wanted to be the first to arrive, and judged that Haumann and his crew would wait until after twilight to appear.

While he waited, he reviewed the route they would take to reach the Isle of Wight. First they would sail a straight course across to Start Point and then up to Brixham, then up to Berry Head and straight across Lyme Bay, a forty-mile stretch that would take them to the worst hazard on the coast – the infamous limestone ledges called the Portland Bill and the hidden sandbar known as The Shambles. Farther on, they would reach the swift currents of the Solent, and the Needles. Once in the Solent, the Isle of Wight would be nearby.

After dusk had settled into the gloom of evening, he kept an eye out, looking up and down the shoreline until he saw the light of a single lantern approaching, accompanied by several indistinct figures. As the light grew closer to Jack, the figures resolved themselves into the round-faced merchant, Haumann, and three other men, none of whom seemed like seasoned mariners to Jack.

 _Landsmen if I ever saw one,_ he thought. He greeted Haumann, and remarked, “This the crew? Do they have much experience?”

“Not a lot,” said Haumann, adding under his breath, “Farmers n’ fishermen. Best I could do on short notice.” Then he made quick introductions, “ ‘Ere’s Derek, Randall, an’ Perin.”

Jack nodded as each man was introduced. Even in the dark they all gave the impression of being rather well-armed. _A farmer might carry a cudgel,_ thought Jack, _but not a fisherman. And they seem to have cutlasses as well._

“We’re off, then,” he said to Haumann. “We need to make Brixham before we anchor.”

As they rowed out to the cutter, Haumann remarked, “Nice vessel. She looks new. Where’d ye get ‘er if ye don’t mind me askin’?”

“Uncle of a friend of me aunt’s second cousin,” Jack said breezily.

Once aboard, he took Haumann below to inspect the merchandise, which had been securely lashed together to prevent damage when the cutter sailed through rough seas. Jack lifted the tarpaulin, and Haumann made a quick estimate of the total, pausing to peer at a mark that was stamped on the side of each anker. He held his lantern close, and Jack saw him smile to himself at the image burned into the wood: a bird descending on a small rodent.

“Right, then,” Haumann said at last. “We’re in your ‘ands, Captain Sparrow. Let’s be off.”

They returned to the deck, and Jack began to direct the men as they prepared to take the cutter out. _Skills not quite up to the mark,_ he thought, taking several sips from his flask. _Perhaps he got ‘em from the Royal Navy._ He noticed another oddity: although he was giving the men their orders, they would frequently glance past him at Haumann, as if for approval.

Once the cutter was clear of the cove, Jack took advantage of the smooth passage ahead, and began a conversation with Haumann.

“Any particular reason why your lads are so well-heeled?” he asked casually.

“To guard ‘un against smugglers,” Haumann replied, somewhat unconvincingly. “I’ve had bad luck with ‘em in the past. Just want to be prudent.” Then, with a sly look at Jack, he added, “Ye must’ve heared o’ that bastard what called himself King Thomas.”

“King Thomas?” said Jack, with a puzzled frown. “Never heard of ‘im. What’s he king of?”

“Why, the smugglers o’ course!” said Haumann wisely. “There be all manner o’ tales about ‘im.”

“Ah! You must mean Thomas Hawkhurst,” Jack said. “No one has to mind about him now. Word is that they have him under lock and key, so, no worries.”

“An’ I says good riddance,” grumbled Haumann.

Jack steered by the stars in silence for another mile or so, then glanced at Haumann. “We’ve got hours ahead of us,” he said, smiling encouragement. “And I love a good yarn. Tell me what you’ve heard.”

“Well,” said Haumann, thoughtfully, “They d’ say that Hawkhurst met the devil ridin’ a headless horse one night, an’ sold ‘is soul to be King of the Smugglers – that’s how it all begun. Ye’d well believe it if ye seed the way ee killed anyone ee took a dislike to. Just slip around behind they, as they sat drinkin’, and slit they belly wi’ a knife. ”

Jack was about to ask Haumann how he knew this, but Derek, who was sitting nearby, interrupted.

“A mad dog, pure an’ simple,” he said in a hard voice. “Earned every snip o’ that evil reputation.”

“Ferocious ee was,” agreed Haumann. “Ye never knawed what ‘ud set ‘im off. ”

Jack sent Derek below for more rum, and the conversation paused until Jack, Haumann and Derek had slaked their thirst. Derek moved forward on the deck, out of earshot, and Haumann took up the subject of Hawkhurst once more.

“I well remember what ee done t’ one o’ the preventives,” he said, taking a swig of rum. “Ee suspicioned the man wuz watchin’ ‘im, and it came about that this man fell ill on account of some poison meat ee ate at a tavern in Gorran.” Haumann gave Jack a look out of the corner of his eye, and nodded slightly. “So Hawkhurst came t’ see ‘im wi’ the doctur.”

“Nice of ‘im,” Jack remarked.

“Aye, well, what happened next weren’t so nice,” Haumann replied. “The doctur bled the man, and Hawkhurst pulled out ‘is gun. ‘Bleed ‘un some more,’ ee told doctur. An’ so the man was bled an’ bled again, ‘til he was too weak t’ move. After the doctur left, Hawkhurst took’n the man to the tallest cliff edge, an’ tossed ‘im over.”

This reminded Jack of Tamsin’s story about Old Dan, but he merely commented, “Sounds like he’s not a man to turn your back on.”  

“Not when ee has a notion ye’ve talked about him,” said Haumann darkly. “Ee beat another man an’ threw ‘im down a well with no proof o’ nothing. No, ye mustn’t be catched by a man like Hawkhurst unless yer lookin’ for a thunderin’ bad end. ” He gave a heavy sigh and took another swig. “Ee’s drove off all the other free-traders.”

“Then I suppose they’ll be back,” Jack suggested. “I mean, now that he’s gone an’ all.”

Haumann looked surprised. “Oh, tesn’t that I’m sorry t’ see ‘em go, bein’ an honest merchant meself,” he said quickly.

The rest of the night was uneventful, although once or twice Jack thought the crew glanced at Haumann, who might have given a slight shake of his head to them. By mid-morning they had reached the waters of Lyme Bay, near Brixham, and Jack supervised the anchoring of the cutter. The good weather was holding, and he went below deck and slept for several hours, knowing that the next challenge would be getting through The Shambles and Portland Bill in one piece.

When Jack appeared on deck later that afternoon, the sun was low in the western sky. The day was still fair, although now and then he felt a gust of wind that was a bit stronger than the rest. Jack studied at the sky and noted that the few, small clouds he could see were moving more or less in the same direction. _Mares’ tails and mackerel scales,_ he thought – the sort of sky that portended heavy weather. Haumann and his crew did not seem to notice the subtle changes in the weather, and Jack was not surprised, given his opinion of their seamanship in general.

Under Jack’s instruction, they heaved up anchor, and set out on the thirty-mile journey across Lyme Bay. As the cutter began to make headway, Haumann gazed out at the shoreline.

“How far do ye reckon it is before we be out of sight o’ land?” he asked Jack.

Jack shrugged. “It’s thirty miles straight across, and you can’t see land after about six miles,” he replied absentmindedly, thinking that the deteriorating weather could make for an interesting time at Portland Bill, on the other side of the bay.

Haumann grunted, and moved away to speak with Derek.

For the first two hours, Jack steered the cutter. When they could no longer see land in the fading rays of the setting sun, he asked Haumann to relieve him.

“Aye,” replied Haumann with a grin. “Twill be a pleasure.”

Jack gave Haumann the helm, and had taken a few steps towards the main hatch before his sixth sense told him to turn around. He spun about, to find Derek, Randall and Perin pointing pistols at him, and Haumann grinning as he steered the cutter.

“Bind him, lads,” Haumann called out cheerily.

Derek moved quickly to take Jack’s weapons whilst Randall produced a length of rope, and tied Jack’s wrists with it, struggling to get the knots tight. “First mutiny?” asked Jack in a kindly tone.

“Now heave ‘im off the side,” ordered Haumann.

“Ah! So you’ll be alright then?” Jack asked as Perin began to push him towards the rail. “Makin’ passage between The Shambles and Portland Bill? ‘Graveyard-of-countless-ships’? You think your lads are up to it?”

The crew paused and turned towards Haumann.

“We’ll take the outside passage an’ sail around it,” Haumann said.

“Ah! Good plan!” said Jack. “So long as you don’t mind all the vessels you’ll see doing the same thing. Mostly brigs – I’m sure they’ll all notice a cutter.”

The crew stepped back and made no move to lay hands on Jack. He sauntered up to Haumann before continuing.

“The point is, mate, whatever your scheme might be, you’ve got to face facts,” he said. Turning, he raised his voice so that the crew could hear him. “If by some miracle you don’t get wrecked on the ledges at the Bill, what’s after that? Crossin’ Stutland Bay at night with no moon? You’ll just sail up, get on the right side of the Needles – at the right tide – and run right through the Solent?”

Haumann looked uncomfortable, and Jack sensed a willingness to negotiate in his next words.

“I won’t be payin’ ye for the brandy,” Haumann insisted. “I know where ye got ‘n it from. That’s Hawkhurst’s mark on that brandy – the hawk killing the shrew, and ye might say I’ve a claim to that particular cargo. As I see it, King Thomas owed me.” At this, there was a murmur of approval from the crew.

“Then, just as a matter of interest,” Jack enquired, “Why bring me along at all? You could’ve taken the _Katie_ yourselves – or even the cutter, for that matter.”

“Aye,” answered Haumann. “But this way, folk be likely t’ think that Jack Sparrow made off with the goods, an’ no one be lookin’ fer us.”

“Oh, I like that,” Jack said with a confident, toothy smile, “except you fine lot of seamen ain’t fit to make a passage that’s ten miles, let alone ninety. So in fact, it’s quite lucky for you that I’m aboard.”

Having got their full attention, he proceeded to set forth his proposal.

“Your enterprise could do with my skills,” he said. “Why not wait a bit longer? Let me get you to your destination, and if you like the work I do, perhaps I can join up with you. If you don’t . . . well, you can still make me disappear.”

Haumann frowned as he considered Jack’s proposition. At last he asked, “’Ow much farther ‘till the Portland Bill?”

“Another three hours or more,” Jack answered.

“Then we’ll put ye in the hold while we decide,” Haumann said. The crew murmured agreement. “And I’m captain now,” he warned Jack. “No tricks.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack said with a grin. Randall and Perin each took one of his arms and began to steer him towards the hatchway. When they were about to descend the stairs, Jack looked back at Haumann.

“Do mind the weather,” Jack called over his shoulder, nodding his head towards the gathering clouds. “You sure you want to be captain, mate?” Haumann’s expression was tense, but he said nothing.

Once in the hold, Randall looked for a suitable place to secure Jack to the cutter’s hull.

“Not near the ankers, mate,” suggested Jack. “In case those ropes give way and the lot of ‘em topple over.”

In the end, they secured a long rope around the base of the cutter’s keel-stepped mast, and ran the other end through Jack’s restraints. He sat down with his back against a bulwark, some distance from the cargo.

“Getting’ a bit stuffy in here,” he remarked. “You want to open the forward hatch while the good weather holds.”

“First we’ll be decidin’ whether t’ keep ye or toss ye overboard,” growled Randall.

Jack heard a scrabbling noise as of one or two large animals somewhere amongst the ankers. _Rats?_ he wondered. _Really big rats?_ _No; sounds more like a badger. Don’t recall there bein’ a badger on board . . ._

“Also, there seem to be either rats or badgers in the hold,” he complained to the men, who laughed as they returned to the deck.

Jack closed his eyes and congratulated himself. _So far, proceeding as per the overall scheme_.

A sudden clatter made him open his eyes just as the Brat’s head appeared over the top of the ankers.

 _Except for that,_ he sighed, turning his eyes skyward. _Should have known._

“When we discussed trying not to do anything stupid, just what did you think I meant?” he asked as politely as he could manage.

She climbed over the cargo and approached him. “Why are you tied up?” she whispered, ignoring his question.

“A slight complication,” Jack replied. “Apparently, they are not, in fact, planning to pay for the goods, love.”

 

 **Next:** Jack and the Brat plan an escape, and the preventive officers pay a call to Highcliffe House.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original plots and characters are owned by me.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Many thanks to Freedom of the Seas, beta extraordinaire!
> 
> To All My Readers: Thank you so much for your kudos and comments. It means a lot to me when I hear your feedback, and I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your support!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original characters and plots are owned by me.


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